


Fair Is Foul

by waywardrose



Category: The Last Duel (2020)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anachronistic, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Medieval Flirting, Not Canon Compliant, Reader-Insert, Sad Ending, Spoilers, rape mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26753653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrose/pseuds/waywardrose
Summary: The other ladies at court told you not to demean yourself by keeping company with a squire. You pointed out that said squire had Count Pierre’s favor. Said squire might even be favored above any knight.
Relationships: Jacques le Gris/Reader, Jacques le Gris/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Fair Is Foul

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous said: Request for Jacques LeGris fic to celebrate the new set porn

The other ladies at court told you not to demean yourself by keeping company with a squire. You pointed out that said squire had Count Pierre's favor. Said squire might even be favored above any knight.

Your host, Lady Camille, huffed at your words and went back to observing the courtiers play _jeu de paume_ in the courtyard below. You watched Jacques. His white undershirt clung to his back with sweat, his hair black with it.

The round ended, and the players went for refreshment. As if Jacques could feel your scrutiny, he looked directly at you. His eyes—dark and fox-like—held a daring hunger no other courtier had the temerity to reveal.

You liked Jacques's boldness. He was quick-witted during discussions, generous with praise for his friends, and scintillating on his feet. There were rumors about him off his feet as well, but you'd never had the pleasure.

But that wasn't for his lack of trying.

You would partner with him during a dance or converse with him if he approached. His gaze met yours more than you hoped anyone noticed. You certainly hoped Lady Camille never saw how your eyes lingered on him. She would send you home to your mother.

That evening, a nosegay of wild flowers lay on your pillow. You didn't have to guess who'd left it. You already knew.

* * *

The court returned to Alencon for the apple harvest. You joined the festivities of apple picking and leisure before the upcoming winter. You listened as the other ladies chattered on about chores still left to do and intrigues to indulge.

You continued on, filling your basket with rosy apples for cider. A gentle breeze ruffled your skirts and tickled up the sleeves of your gown. You rolled your shoulders as you took a deep breath.

Jacques suddenly ducked between two trees next to you and asked to join you. He smiled, and his eyes shone like honey in the dappled sunlight. Of course, you should refuse him. You couldn't be seen favoring one man—no matter if you did.

Wordlessly, you handed him the basket. He studied the apples you'd already picked and complimented them.

"You have a keen eye," he said.

"A trained eye."

You plucked another apple, heavy and round, and dropped it in the basket.

"Then you've been taught well."

You met his gaze. "I should hope so. I'd hate to pick bad fruit and make anyone ill."

He glanced around the orchard. "I doubt there are any bad fruit here." He looked at you. "All I see is fine and luscious."

You hummed in feigned indifference even as heat bloomed across your face.

"The eye can be deceived, sir," you said as you search for another apple to pick. "Sometimes it is best to touch."

"Is that so?"

"Here." You cupped an apple. While its skin was red and glossy, it lacked the heft of a juicy apple. "Would you pick that one?"

His fingers brushed yours as he tested the apple.

"Or would you prefer this one?" you asked as you found another one, which was heavier, but not nearly as pleasing to the eye.

He tested that one and made an affirmative sound.

"You see, sir? Appearances can be misleading."

He wryly agreed, "Fair is foul, and foul is fair."

"At least in cider making."

You grinned at each other for a moment. He was so close to you, the basket the only barrier. You stole a glance at his plush lips, wondering what it would be like to kiss them, before stepping back. He appeared to realize how inapt his proximity.

He cleared his throat as you went to the next tree. He picked apples that were too high for you to reach. He didn't complain as the basket became heavier. He asked after your family and if you'd heard of John Gower, the poet. Your father had some of Gower's _Vox Clamantis_ translated and criticized during Sunday service.

You disagreed with the criticism. You believed in _noblesse oblige_ and legal justice. The peasantry had the right to a good life, and the king had the responsibility to ensure they had one.

Jacques commented, "You know more than you let on."

His words didn't sound approving or disapproving, but you knew you had to tread carefully.

"I don't know as much as some."

"That can be said for us all." He held out the basket, and your stomach dropped. "May I join you at supper tonight?"

For a second you were taken aback, but you recovered quick enough. You took the basket from him.

"You may, sir."

He nodded in thanks and strode down the shady corridor the trees made. You watched him walk, how his dark hair fluttered in the breeze. You caught Lady Camille watching you from the other side of the corridor, her mouth pinched.

* * *

The court was in an uproar. Lady de Carrouges had withdrawn from court a week before her husband had come to Count Pierre with ugly accusations against Jacques. _Your Jacques._ You didn't want to believe he'd done such despicable things to a lady. Jacques was warmhearted and clever, favored and had been gifted land.

He couldn't have done anything Jean de Carrouges had charged him with.

Nevertheless, Jacques had left the next day. It kept the peace, though you missed him.

Lady Camille insisted you not attract attention. You were to remain calm and not mention Jacques. She fretted your reputation and marriage prospects had been sullied by association.

"We'll need to encourage other suitors within the month," she said.

You nodded, because there was nothing to say. Lady Camille and your mother were only ensuring your success. You certainly didn't want to end up unwed and living with your brother and his family.

* * *

You dreamed of Jacques sending for you. Though it was winter, you braved the cold to his keep. He met you in a snowy field lined in cherry trees. Ice gilded the pink blossoms as if to preserve them.

Jacques pulled you from your horse, his strong hands held your waist. He twirled you from the saddle and drew you close. You wrapped your arms around him to bury your fingers in the black fur collar of his cape.

He smiled at you as you slid down his front. He was warm and smelled of a flickering fire at night. He was beautiful and fierce and yours.

Snow and pink petals danced under the pale gray sky.

You pet the fur collar, not daring to touch his hair. "This fur is remarkable."

His smile turned vicious.

He said, "It's wolf," before seizing your lip between his teeth.

* * *

Lady de Carrouges had appealed to King Charles. It was rumored she was with child. It was also rumored the child was Jacques's.

The de Carrouges's barren marriage had been something of a curiosity. Lord Jean would not end the marriage, and Lady Marguerite had never encouraged any passions from another knight. For her to be expecting only added evidence in her favor.

Your gut churned at the idea of Jacques forcing himself upon her. You didn't understand why. You thought...

You thought he'd loved you.

Had you made him yearn for too long? Were the needs of men so overpowering they would do such a thing? Or were you that blind to Jacques's true nature?

You retreated from the main hall of the chateau. You didn't want to hear any more. You climbed the spiral staircase in the tower, your hand on the center column. Your feet felt as heavy as your heart.

Above you, feet shuffled on stone. You moved to the outside of the tread so as to not collide with the person coming down. With a glance up, you stopped. Perhaps your heart stopped, too.

Jacques stood treads above you, towering in blue.

You couldn't face him—not after what he'd done. You turned and ran down the stairs. He called your name, but you couldn't look. His presence was a weight against your back. You could discern him gaining on you.

A big hand caught your upper arm and spun you to face him. You tripped on a tread and braced yourself by slapping palms to the stone wall. Jacques caught you with hands at your waist. The sensation was new, yet completely known. You expected to see cherry blossoms.

He backed you to the wall, staring into your eyes. You could scream, though he hadn't done anything untoward. Perhaps that's how it started with Lady Marguerite.

He murmured, "Don't be scared."

"I don't wish to be."

"And yet you are."

You wouldn't lie to him.

You stared at the deep crescents under his eyes. He was tense and looked exhausted. Maybe he was haunted by his own dark deeds. You wondered if they kept him from sleep.

"Did you do it?" you asked as the cold seeped into your bones.

"Have I ever done anything that would make you think I could?"

"That's hardly an answer."

"When last I saw the lady, she was well and undamaged."

You shook your head and looked away, because that still wasn't an answer. He gave your waist a squeeze and tried to catch your gaze. You couldn't fathom why a civilized man, a Christian man, would bring harm upon a lady.

His voice was tender when he said, "Look at me, my dove."

Your eyes burned with tears. You didn't want to look, didn't want to see. Some part of you didn't want to know any of this.

"Please," he whispered.

You swallowed a sob and finally looked into his eyes. They were so sincere, brimming with hurt and turmoil. Tears rolled down your cheeks, hot as if they had come from deep in your heart. You touched the soft fabric of his doublet. He straightened to his full height and cradled your face in his hands.

"I'm going to Paris, and I will clear my name." He stroked his callused thumbs over your cheekbones. "When I return, I will present myself to your father."

You dipped your head and leaned into his gentle hold.

"Wait for me." He tilted your face to his. "Wait for me."

He kissed you. His silken lips coaxed yours to move with him. It felt better than you ever dreamed. His mustache feathered along your skin. His breath mingled with yours and disappeared, going to some untroubled place, to where nothing could taint it. You felt his kiss all the way down until you quaked.

"Wait for me," he whispered once more before stealing down the stairs and leaving you to catch your breath.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://the-wayward-rose.tumblr.com)


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